Whispering Smith
looked at her approvingly. “I hope nothing I may say ever will come true unless it makes you happy,” he answered lightly. “It would be a shame if it did anything else.”
She pointed two accusing fingers at him. “Do you know what you promised last night? You have forgotten already! You said you would tell me why my leghorns are eating their feathers off.”
“Let me talk with them.”
“Just what I should like. Come on!” said Dicksie, leading the way to the chicken-yard. “I want you to see my bantams too. I have three of the dearest little things. One is setting. They are over the way. Come see them first. And, oh, you must see my new game chickens. Truly, you never saw anything as handsome as Cæsar—he’s the rooster; and I have six pullets. Cæsar is perfectly superb.”
When the two reached the chicken-houses Dicksie examined the nest where she was setting the bantam hen. “This miserable hen will not set,” she exclaimed in despair. “See here, Mr. Smith, she has left her nest again and is scratching around on the ground. Isn’t it a shame? I’ve tied a cord around her leg so she couldn’t run away, and she is hobbling around like a scrub pony.”
“Perhaps the eggs are too warm,” suggested her companion. “I have had great success in cases like this with powdered ice—not using too
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